


Luckiest Man Alive

by raregloves



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Asexuality Spectrum, F/M, Fluff, Limousine Sex, M/M, Multi, POV Lestrade, PWP, Polyamory, Really good sex and not so good sex, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Experimentation, Smoking, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 11:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1855666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raregloves/pseuds/raregloves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody knows Greg Lestrade is hot stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Luckiest Man Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: PWP--Lestrade and EVERYONE. Either Greg is the sexiest thing on two legs and everyone throws themselves at him (both genders) and he catches *most* of them; OR Greg is so nurturing and comforting that he keeps going from taking care of people to sliding into having sex. Angst-free zone, if possible.

With his divorce papers signed and his wedding ring absent Greg felt like a free man. There was a spring in his step, a confident sway to his shoulders, that he couldn’t remember having for years now.  
  
And people noticed.  
  
~  
  
Molly was at the same New Years party. After the awful debacle at Christmas (Sherlock insulting her in the most vile way possible then dragging her off to look at a body) Greg felt it was his duty to be complimentary.   
  
It was the Yards semi-official party, though not everyone who’d come was, strictly speaking, from the Yard. Many people from Barts had attended, he saw Andersons wife, and Greg thought he glimpsed John Watson too, though he might’ve been mistaken.   
  
Molly was standing on the balcony with a glass of white wine. She was wearing the same dress she had worn to the 221B Christmas party. He swallowed. The dress had astounded him when he had first seen it, and did so again now. It clung to her body in the most suggestive way, bringing out the curve of her waist beautifully.  
  
Greg walked to stand beside her. The view wasn’t anything special, though it was a little calmer on the balcony generally than it was inside. Many people were drunk and attempting to dance.  
  
‘It really is a beautiful dress,’ Greg said, resting his arms on the balcony railing. ‘I never got a chance to say, last time.’  
  
‘Oh!’ Molly smiled, blushing, glancing at him shyly. ‘Thank you. I wasn’t going to wear it again, but I thought, well, I’d spent the money and I didn’t think I was going to see anyone here who’d already seen it… Not that I’m not glad to see you here! Obviously. I _am_ glad to see you.’  
  
‘And I’m glad to see you,’ Greg said, smiling. ‘But it’s not really about the dress looking beautiful. It’s about you. I hope you realize that. Sherlock… who knows about Sherlock. The bullocks he said… Molly. You’re very beautiful.’  
  
He exhaled, closing his eyes and focusing on the feel of the cool night air on his face. He hoped it was too dark for Molly to see the flush in his cheeks. Her smaller hand came to rest over his, squeezing slightly.  
  
Greg opened his eyes. 

Molly was beaming at him, eyes bright. His stomach lurched pleasantly. Greg turned his hand over so their fingers twined together. The slimness of her fingers made him feel giant in comparison.  
  
‘You’re lovely,’ Molly said. ‘And not so bad yourself. Very handsome, in fact.’  
  
He grinned, delighted. He felt her finger move searchingly over his knuckles. With a shock he realized she was feeling for his (happily absent) wedding ring. She was interested. Oh god she was interested.  
  
‘You won’t find it,’ Greg said, leaning forwards conspiratorially. ‘My wedding ring. It’s over. Signed the papers almost a week ago.’  
  
‘Oh…’ Molly hesitated. ‘I want to say _good_ but that seems horribly insensitive.’  
  
‘It isn’t,’ Greg said, ‘promise.’  
  
‘Then good,’ Molly said, looking up at him. _‘Good.’  
_  
Greg lowered his face towards hers, slowly, slowly. She was lit up by the light coming from the room behind them, and her hand was warm over his. He gave her all the time in the world to pull away. She didn’t.  
  
He pressed his lips over hers. Somebody, some insignificant person, wolf whistled. Greg ignored that, ignored every single thing except for the soft press of Mollys lips against his own. 

This close he could smell her hairspray. She opened her lips against his, her tongue searching. Greg sighed. She tasted like the cake Sally had brought, the wine she was drinking. 

He put a hand on her hip, rubbing his fingers over the soft fabric of her dress. She shivered against him, pressing closer. Greg could not remember the last time he had wanted somebody so badly.  
  
‘Molly,’ he said, pulling away just enough to speak, their lips brushing with every word. ‘I’ve had enough of this party. Have you?’  
  
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You know, I think I have.’  
  
He grinned. Molly finished her wine in one gulp, putting the glass down on the first flat surface she found. Greg took her hand, ignoring the _oohhhs_ and _ahhhs_ of his inebriated colleagues.   
  
They walked hand in hand to his car, Greg feeling desperately glad that he hadn’t drunk too much to drive. He unlocked his car doors with a click. The moment they were sitting side by side she reached across and put her hand over his knee. Greg, with extreme difficulty, concentrated on the road. There was almost no traffic, though a number of pedestrians were walking together in groups, singing.  
  
He pulled up in front of his flat and leapt from the car, rushing around to open Mollys door for her. She blushed as he did so, holding out one hand for him as if she were a queen. Well, Greg thought, she might as well be. He kissed her just above her knuckles. 

They hurried upstairs, Greg fumbling his keys only slightly. His flat was mostly clean, most of the mess merely papers he’d taken home from work. No offensive plates of food, no unwashed clothes. 

Molly hardly looked, though. She turned to him the moment the door was closed, leaning up to kiss him, both her hands gripping his shoulders. Sherlock, Greg briefly reflected, didn’t know what he was missing. 

He wrapped both his arms around her, walking them backwards through his flat towards his bedroom, almost lifting her. Molly moaned into him, her mouth open and willing against his.  
  
They stopped against Gregs bedroom door, Greg twisting the door handle impatiently. Once it was open they tumbled through together, laughing a little, Greg reaching forward to catch her in another kiss.   
  
She started on his shirt buttons, expression hungry. Greg ran his hands up and down her sides, feeling the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist and the firmness of her hips and arse. 

‘Oh god,’ she groaned into his mouth. ‘Squeeze it.’  
  
‘Your arse?’  
  
Yes,’ Molly said. ‘If you don’t mind.’  
  
‘Not at all…’ 

He reached down, until each hand was full of her round, gorgeous arse. Greg squeezed, feeling her flesh rise between his fingers, lifting slightly. Molly threw her head back and moaned.

Greg felt his cock thicken as all his blood rushed south. Molly Hooper… it was always the quiet ones, wasn’t it? He kissed the exposed length of her neck, tasting her skin.  
  
Molly pushed his shirt off his shoulders. Greg let go of her arse, reaching up to find the zip that had (surely?) to be hidden somewhere at the back of the dress. He found it and pulled it down, trying not to snag it.   
  
‘I’ll get that,’ Molly said, stepping away. She reached around and grabbed the tiny zipper and pulled it harder than Greg would’ve dared, the dress falling down her body, catching briefly on her hips. She was wearing a lacy black bra and matching pants. Greg felt his cock lurch in unabashed approval.   
  
‘God, look at you,’ he said, leaning forward to kiss her. She slipped her fingers up his back, scratching up his spine with the tips of her nails, making him shiver. He cupped one of her breasts in his hands, the hardness of her nipple under the lace exciting him desperately. His other hand moved between her legs, and he slid his fingers over the meeting of her lips.  
  
Mollys hands moved to his front and downwards, pulling at his belt. He parted his legs to make her job easier, desperate for the both of them to be as naked as possible as quickly as possible.  
  
She made a lusty, approving noise when his trousers dropped. His cock was tenting his underpants, wet patch obvious. Molly ducked down, mouthing it through the cotton. Greg rested a hand in her hair.  
  
Molly looked up at him, her large dark eyes pulling his focus.   
  
‘Greg?’  
  
‘Yeah?’  
  
‘Would you, um- would you spank me?’  
  
‘Spank-? Oh god yeah, sure.’  
  
She stood, delighted, pulling her underpants down. Greg knew his eyes were wide but he couldn’t care. His cock was so hard it was throbbing slightly. His hands itched to be against her milky, soft skin.  
  
‘Sit on the bed,’ Molly instructed. ‘I’ll go over your knee.’  
  
Greg sat, putting his legs just far enough apart to be comfortable for her to rest on. Molly braced herself over his lap and against the bed, the peaks of her arse directly under his chin.  
  
‘Fleshy part of the arse, top of the thighs, right?’ Greg asked.  
  
‘You’ve done this before,’ Molly said, breathless. ‘Yes, that’s right.’  
  
He let his hand run up and down her arse, his fingers occasionally reaching down to brush suggestively at her entrance, making her shiver. Greg squeezed her cheeks, rubbed them, unable to stop himself wondering what it would be like to fuck her. She squirmed on his lap, made impatient by his teasing.  
  
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Come on.’  
  
Greg cracked his knuckles and she shook with anticipation. He wondered how wet she was already.  
  
He brought his hand down firmly, though not hard. The smack sounded loudly in his otherwise silent flat. For a few seconds he could see the outline of his hand on her arse cheek. He gave her a matching one on the other side.  
  
‘Faster,’ Molly said, her voice low. ‘And harder.’  
  
He spanked her again, counting inside his head. Three, four, five- her flesh bounced under his palm. Six. That was made her moan. Seven, eight, the outline of his hand lingered longer now. Nine. Ten. She said his name as if she were chocking on it.  
  
Eleven, twelve. Molly was panting, trying to grind into him but unable to raise her hips high enough to manage it. Greg could feel the wet patch on his underpants expanding. His palm was stinging. It was the hottest thing he’d ever seen.  
  
Thirteen. He put his shoulder into it, the sound of his skin hitting hers mingling with her groans. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. It must hurt, Greg thought, but all Molly seemed to feel was desperate, writhing pleasure. Seventeen.  
  
‘Two more,’ Greg said. ‘Then I want to fuck you.’  
  
‘Fuck,’ Molly said. ‘Yes, god yes, Greg.’  
  
Eighteen. Her arse was pink now, and warm under his hand. Nineteen. God, he wanted her. Twenty.  
  
He pulled gently at her, rearranging her limbs until she was half-lying on his bed, not putting pressure on her sensitive skin. They kissed deeply, Molly pressing into Gregs mouth. He ran his hands over her skin, feeling the way she shook against him.  
  
‘Want you now,’ she said, pulling away. ‘Greg, you said you’d fuck me.’  
  
‘Bra off, I’ll grab a condom,’ Greg said. ‘That was the hottest thing I’ve done in ages.’  
  
Molly beamed, reaching around to unclasp her bra. Greg yanked his underpants down, relieved to have his cock free at last. He pulled condoms from his beside drawer, glancing over at Molly as he did so.  
  
That was a mistake. He almost came just looking at her- her lipstick smeared, her hair starting to frizz, and hand between her legs. Christ. He wondered how many fingers-?  
  
He unwrapped the condom and tugged it over himself, the slightly uncomfortable feeling of the latex grounding him a little. He absolutely would _not_ come the moment he was inside her.  
  
‘Lie back,’ he said. ‘I think I promised somebody a good fuck.’  
  
Molly fell backwards, pointing her toes towards the ceiling, but kept her hands between her legs. Greg moved around to stand in front of her, catching his breath at the sight of two of her fingers deep inside her own cunt.  
  
Greg clambered forwards until he had a hand either side of her, and her legs wrapped firmly around his hips. Her hair was fanning out around her face, and a bright pink blush was developing over her cheekbones.  
  
She slipped her fingers out. They were glistening.  
  
‘Can I taste?’ Greg asked, surprised by how rough his voice had become.  
  
Molly slipped her fingers into his mouth and Greg sucked at them, swallowing down her salty taste. Her heels dug into the back of his hips, urging him on.  
  
Greg lowered himself, feeling the tip of his cock brush against her entrance. She groaned.   
  
‘Come on and fuck me, _please,_ Greg, oh god.’  
  
She was so wet. He slipped in inch by inch, moaning as his cock vanished inside her. The heat of her body was astounding.  
  
‘Oh god,’ Molly moaned, eyes shut now. ‘I can feel, oh god- move, please, move-’  
  
Greg surged forwards, letting searing, desperate instinct take over. Her nails raked down his back, making him hiss, but he hardly noticed, because the wet heat of her cunt was everything, everything- his hips snapped forwards and she moaned. His cock moved in and out of her with a slick, filthy noise.  
  
‘Harder!’ Molly shouted at him now. ‘Oh _god_ , oh _god_ …’

He dropped from his hands to his elbows. He could now feel how her tits bounced against his chest with every thrust. They were both sweaty, panting, lips parted. His hips worked furiously. Greg kept his eyes on Mollys face, looking for signs. Greg could feel his cock twitching, his balls aching.  
  
He wasn’t going to last. Oh god. And neither would see, if he was any judge.   
  
One of Mollys hands left his back, and slid down her front. Her fingers brushed against his cock as he moved in her, and Greg cried out. But she wasn’t reaching for him, he realized. Her fingers were pressed up against her clit, rubbing against it desperately.  
  
‘I- I’m going to-’  
  
Molly came, her cunt clenching down around his cock. Her face was twisted up in pleasure. Greg kept moving, valiantly trying to fuck her through her orgasm, but at the last moment the way she pulsed around him became too much. His eyes slammed shut, and all the air rushed out of his chest as if he’d been hit. 

~  
  
‘This is just brilliant,’ Greg said sarcastically. ‘How long does it usually take Sherlock to find you, in your experience? I mean you’ve been a hostage because of him about, what, four times now?’  
  
‘Yeah, four,’ John said, sighing. ‘Not usually longer than an hour. Sometimes much faster. We won’t die before he finds us, don’t worry.’  
  
Dying was not actually the main concern Greg had with their situation. They’d been forced into the cupboard under the stairs of the man they’d been hunting down. Sherlock had kindly forgotten to mention that the man might be armed and paranoid.  
  
No, what really bothered Greg was how close he and John were. He’d always found John attractive, had always been drawn to men shorter than himself but with an air of confidence, assurance.   
  
‘This is kind of a funny coincidence, actually,’ John said. ‘I’ve been meaning to have a word with you in private.’  
  
‘Have you?’  
  
‘Yeah.’ It was too dark to tell completely, but Greg thought John sounded slightly awkward. ‘It’s hard to, you know, organize social things around Sherlock.’  
  
‘I can imagine,’ Greg said, putting as much sympathy as he could into his voice. ‘I’m shocked you manage to date as many people as you do.’  
  
His knee was pressing against Johns. Neither of them made any move to alter this.  
  
‘That’s what I was going to talk to you about, actually,’ John said. ‘You see… God, this is awkward. But I fancy you. There. I… fancy you.’  
  
‘Oh,’ Greg said. ‘Oh, that’s brilliant.’  
  
‘I’m glad you said that,’ John said. ‘Otherwise this might have been a very, very awkward hour stuck in here together. I thought you did, though. Well. I thought I’d seen you looking.’  
  
‘I’ve been looking,’ Greg confirmed. ‘God, this is brilliant. I was hoping you had been looking. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so happy in a hostage situation before.’  
  
‘I could make you feel even happier,’ John said. ‘If you like.’  
  
‘But… what if crazy upstairs comes back?’ Greg said, stunned. ‘Or if Sherlock bursts through the door in two minutes time?’  
  
‘Well, I like a bit of risk,’ John said. Greg could almost hear him shrugging.  
  
Greg knew he was doomed. It didn’t matter that he was leaning against a lumpy wall, or that the cupboard smelt like old clothes and dust. His cock was paying attention despite these less than ideal circumstances.   
  
‘Ok.’ Greg said. ‘Fuck it, why not?’  
  
‘That’s the spirit,’ John said. ‘You want my hands or mouth? That’s probably all I’ll manage in a space this small.’  
  
‘Oh. Um.’ Greg frowned. It was a rather serious question, after all. ‘Hands. Easier on both of us, in this situation. But don’t I get a kiss?’  
  
‘You get a kiss,’ John said. He was very close, Greg realized. He could feel Johns breath as he spoke. He leaned in blindly, hoping he wasn’t about to collide with part of Johns nose.  
  
He didn’t though. His lips met Johns somewhat chaffed ones. At first the kiss was hesitant, their knees and their mouths their only points of contact. John kissed like somebody who’d had a lot of very, very good experience, parting Gregs lips with ease, biting his lip ever so gently, and Greg gave as good as he got, teasing Johns tongue, making him seek more.  
  
John slid his hands into Gregs hair, no doubt turning it into an awful mess. Greg broke the kiss to bite at Johns neck, just under his jaw.   
  
‘No, don’t, don’t get me too hard,’ John said. ‘I want this to be about you.’  
  
His hands dropped to Gregs trousers. They were his most expensive pair of work trousers, actually, and Greg rather hoped he’d be able to wash out whatever they were subjected to.  
  
Johns hands snuck inside his underpants, fondling Gregs half-hard cock with extreme gentleness. His fingertips were blunt, calloused, and his hands small. He tugged at Gregs balls and, carefully considering the total lack of lube, stroked him.  
  
‘Going to need some spit here,’ John said, moving a hand away. Greg heard him spit, then his hand returned, slicker though by no means as slick as Greg might’ve liked it. Spit dried rather quickly, after all.  
  
Even so, he was growing hard. With a few more spits John worked out a rhythm which had Greg leaking pre-come down his shaft. Now he felt close to as lubed up as he’d need to be, which allowed him to relax into the sensation of Johns fingers closing around him tighter and tighter, playing with his foreskin.  
  
Greg knew his breathing would be a dead give-away to anybody who passed by the door but didn’t care. John leant forwards and kissed him again, smothering some of the noise.  
  
‘You sound delicious,’ John said, leaning away from the kiss to whisper in Gregs ear. ‘I bet you taste delicious. Can I find out? It’d help with cleanup, too. If I swallowed.’  
  
Greg gulped, nodded, and heard John hiss in satisfaction. He shuffled for a moment and (by the sound of it) bumped into a bucket. His hands were briefly absent from Gregs cock, making it ache in dissatisfaction.  
  
Then Johns lips were on him, and oh fuck- Greg knew at once, down to his core, that he was not going to survive this, not going to last-  
  
John had sucked his tip into his mouth and was now, oh fucking god, his tongue was flicking against his slit, as if he’d somehow known- his hands were pressed against the back of Johns head, and he resisted the urge to thrust forward.  
  
Johns mouth slid down him inch by inch. Greg put one of his hands in his mouth, terrified of alerting the paranoid man upstairs. He didn’t think the fact that his captives were giving each other blowjobs would please him, somehow.  
  
Despite the fact that Johns mouth was increasingly full of cock, he was still able to make noise. Greg could feel his throat vibrating as he moaned, sounding almost desperate, as if having the end of Gregs cock brush the back of his throat was his idea of heaven.  
  
And Johns hands were still on his balls, tugging, tugging- John swallowed around him, and Greg moaned in spite of himself at the feeling of Johns throat constrict and pull at his cock.   
  
‘John, I’m not going to last if you keep that up,’ Greg whispered.   
  
John responded by sucking so hard that Greg just knew his cheeks must’ve hollowed out entirely. He came down Johns throat in four spurts, feeling John struggle to suppress his gag reflex as he swallowed. The darkness of the cupboard seemed to sway. Greg lent against the wall, feeling foolishly weak at the knees.  
  
And then he heard John gulp as he swallowed. Greg closed his eyes, overwhelmed.  
  
~  
  
Greg spotted Sherlock standing in the middle of the dance floor looking, unusually for him, extremely awkward and painfully, obviously lonely. John was dancing with Mary, Molly with Tom, and even the bridesmaid (Janine? Jessie?) was with somebody else.  
  
‘I don’t want your pity,’ Sherlock snapped as Greg walked over and tapped him o the shoulder. ‘I didn’t want to stay anyway.’  
  
‘Bullshit,’ Greg said. ‘I know what a man looks like when he needs to dance. So dance with me.’  
  
Sherlock hesitated for only a split second before his lips jerked upwards into an awkward smile. Greg grinned at him, wrapping an arm around Sherlocks skinny, suited waist.  
  
He knew people glanced their way as they danced. Greg didn’t care. Sherlock was a surprisingly good dancer. He seemed to genuinely enjoy the music, and the physical act of moving along with it- as well as showing off how easy it was for him to predict Gregs moves. Typical.  
  
Nobody interrupted them. Greg thought he saw Molly looking at them rather wistfully, but that might have been his imagination. John definitely _did_ raise his eyebrows at them, half startled and half pleased. But Sherlock didn’t see that. He seemed utterly absorbed in the dancing.  
  
And it was lovely, Greg thought, being able to be with Sherlock without talking, without crimes and death, just holding onto each other and having fun.  
  
Eventually, however, Greg knew his knees were going to attack him if he remained moving for much longer.  
  
‘Sorry,’ he said, putting a hand on Sherlocks chest. ‘I really have to sit down.’  
  
‘Outside,’ Sherlock said. ‘I fancy a naughty smoke.’  
  
Greg scowled at him but followed. It was a special occasion, after all, and nobody would miss them. The night air was cold enough to wake him up a little, though he hadn’t realized how tired he’d been getting. They walked side by side until they found a bench, which was half-obscured from the windows by rose bushes.  
  
Sherlock lit up and breathed in the smoke as though it would revive him. Greg watched him, noting the way Sherlocks pale neck flexed as he breathed. It was hard not to notice how attractive Sherlock was, even when he was doing his utter best to annoy you.  
  
‘Want one?’ Sherlock offered.  
  
‘No, I’d best not,’ Greg said.   
  
They sat in silence for a few moments. It was rather peaceful, actually.   
  
‘I don’t understand,’ Sherlock said at last. ‘This whole… sex and marriage and families and flirting… _thing._ I mean obviously I understand it in a practical sense, as such relationships and interactions are vital to the deductive process when applied to motives. In a personal sense, however, I find the whole business rather…’  
  
‘Baffling?’ Greg supplied. ‘I imagine that how it’d be for somebody on the outside looking in. If you didn’t get into it, it’d probably all seem a bit mad.’  
  
‘It does seem mad,’ Sherlock said. ‘I’ve never… well. Not really. But after all this fuss I was wondering if you’d consider-? But. No. Probably not.’  
  
‘Consider what?’  
  
Sherlock puffed on his cigarette and didn’t answer. Greg watched him, knowing that Sherlock would eventually crack. He hated not understanding things, hated asking for advice. But he always did, when he realized (however unhappily) that he needed to.  
  
‘You’re very attractive, objectively speaking,’ Sherlock said. ‘And I can’t think of anybody else I’d be comfortable asking.’  
  
‘You haven’t actually asked me anything yet, though,’ Greg pointed out. ‘Can’t say yes if I don’t know what you want.’  
  
‘Would you… _get off_ with me?’ Sherlock said. He refused to meet Gregs startled look, stubbing out his cigarette under his heel instead and pulling out another. ‘I think that’s the correct term for what I want. Unemotional mutual orgasms.’  
  
‘Well…’ Greg said, hovering between offended and flattered. ‘If I’m really, uh, objectively attractive enough for you then I guess we can give it a go. One of your better experiments, from my point of view, anyway.’  
  
‘Good, ok then,’ Sherlock said. He then started smoking with an aggressiveness that made Greg wince internally. Had his cravings been that bad? Was he perhaps edging towards a danger night?  
  
Once it was smoked (in record time, Greg was sure) Sherlock tossed it aside and smiled at him, the awkward and not entirely genuine smile he used when he was uneasy himself but trying to put others at ease. Greg estimated that it had about a 0% success rate.  
  
‘Ok!’ Sherlock said. ‘What would be the best way?’  
  
Sherlock started to undo his fly and suddenly everything slotted into place.  
  
‘Woah, woah, Sherlock, slow down, I didn’t think you meant literally right now. We’re in _public_ , it’s Johns _wedding reception,_ I don’t know that it’s really the time or place…’  
  
‘Why not?’ Sherlock demanded. ‘We are alone, together, unseen, sober and willing. The only real problem is how many clothes we have on. I have to say, I’ve made a number of assumptions about your penis in the past few minutes and I’d like to see how accurate they are.’  
  
There was rarely any point in arguing with Sherlock, especially when he had an experiment on his mind and the effect of two cigarettes in his system. Besides, it had always a (very well hidden) kink of Gregs. In public. Or at least out in the open.  
  
‘What do you want to try?’ Greg asked. ‘Because, frankly, we have limited options out here.’  
  
‘Oh, I wasn’t thinking we’d stay exactly here…’ Sherlock said, smirking. ‘I suppose you could turn your back to a very harmless incidence of lock-picking? In the name of science?’  
  
‘I’m not breaking into somebodies house with you-’  
  
‘Oh, no, don’t be dim,’ Sherlock snapped. ‘But haven’t you noticed the limo? It was hired for twenty-four hours by the bridesmaids. And it’s parked right around the corner.’  
  
‘Well, now I can’t say no, can I?’ Greg laughed, grinning. ‘Sex in a limo. My lucky night.’  
  
‘I knew you’d see it from my perspective,’ Sherlock said. ‘Come on now.’  
  
Sherlock leapt to his feet and strode off, his jacket flapping impressively behind him as he went. Greg followed, glancing behind them for a moment to check that nobody was watching.  
  
Being with Sherlock was always like this, Greg reflected. You got caught up inside his bubble of intelligence and charisma and ended up doing all sorts of strange things you wouldn’t otherwise do.  
  
The limo was not huge, but certainly large enough for what they wanted. It gleamed, white and shiny, in the light of the moon. Sherlock reached into his coat, bringing out the rolled up lock-pick kit he carried with him everywhere.  
  
Greg didn’t watch Sherlock unlock the door. It was a pointless moment of denial, but still-   
  
‘Here we go,’ Sherlock said. The door clicked, and swung open. The smell of champagne and polished leather wafted out. Sherlock took a deep breath, clearly appreciative, before climbing inside. Greg followed with a final glance over his shoulder.  
  
‘Right,’ Sherlock said. ‘Clothes off, I suppose? What do you think we should do? I bow to your expertise, here.’  
  
‘Say that again,’ Greg said. ‘I wanted it as my ringtone.’  
  
Sherlock ignored this, tugging off his large jacket and leaning forwards to drape it over the drivers seat, where it wouldn’t be creased. He started on the rest of his suit, pale fingers flying over his buttons, utterly uninterested in Greg.  
  
He shrugged, taking off his own suit, which wasn’t as fussy or expensive as Sherlocks anyway. His eyes kept flicking towards Sherlock. The last time he’d seen Sherlock undressed had been years and years ago now, back when Sherlocks drug habit had been eating away at him.  
  
The difference between that younger Sherlock and the one undressing beside him now was astounding: Sherlocks skin had a much healthier glow to it, and he had far more muscle now than he’d once had.  
  
‘Now…’ Sherlock said. ‘I’m sure in one of these little compartment things we should find some… ah… yes…’  
  
He was examining all the small drawers built into the base of the long limo seat, ignoring any drawer filled with tiny bottles of alcohol, eventually finding one containing lube and condoms.  
  
‘Excellent,’ Sherlock said. ‘Now, what have you decided that we should do?’  
  
‘Well, normally both people decide together. More or less.’  
  
‘Less, this time,’ Sherlock said. ‘What about this is normal, exactly?’  
  
‘Very little,’ Greg permitted. ‘Ok. Do you want penetration?’  
  
‘No.’  
  
‘You want to fuck me?’  
  
‘Not really.’  
  
‘Ok. Give me a second.’ Greg ran through their options inside his head before settling on one. Sherlock watched him think, face impassive.   
  
‘Can we start with kissing?’ Greg asked.  
  
‘I believe its traditional,’ Sherlock said.  
  
Sherlock leaned forwards and kissed him. His inexperience was obvious, but slightly endearing anyway. Greg let him experiment for a few minutes, feeling Sherlocks tongue rub up against his, touch his teeth, tickle the roof of his mouth.  
  
Then he placed a hand on the side of Sherlocks face, pausing him. Greg took over the kiss, showing off a little: he used every trick he’d ever learnt on Sherlock. Wanted him to feel good, wanted to show him what a good kiss was meant to be.  
  
Sherlocks eyes, which had been open, now fell closed. The fullness of his lips was shocking, intoxicating, nothing like any of his past lovers. Sherlock was a fast learner; soon Greg could feel Sherlock mimicking the things he’d just done, trying to work out what Greg liked.  
  
Having Sherlocks attention in such a way, well. Greg wasn’t immune. He could feel his cock beginning to thicken. He wondered what Sherlock was able to deduce about him, like this…  
  
As the thought occurred Sherlock pulled back, looking down at his growing erection.  
  
‘You’re aroused,’ he stated. ‘May I look?’  
  
‘Er. Sure.’  
  
Sherlock bent down, scrutinizing his cock with greater interest and attention to detail than even his doctor bothered with. But, crucially, he didn’t touch. Greg felt impatience flare in his stomach alongside his arousal.  
  
Sherlock sniffed at him, then, glancing up briefly, licked at the small drop of pre-come he’d leaked. Greg moaned, wondering if he was about to get the worlds oddest blow job.  
  
It seemed unlikely, however. Sherlock scrunched his nose up and sat up, once again ignoring his cock. He wasn’t hard yet, which was a problem considering what Greg had in mind.  
  
‘Can I give you a hand with that?’ Greg said, indicating Sherlocks soft cock. It looked like a nice one. ‘It’ll help us get started.’  
  
‘Ok,’ Sherlock said.  
  
Greg grabbed some lube from out of the limos X-rated little compartment, warming it between his hands for a few moments before squeezing it onto his palm.  
  
He took Sherlocks soft cock into his hand. It came to life almost at once, slowly thickening and growing in his hand. Greg glanced up and saw Sherlock smiling, almost shyly. He wondered if he’d ever done any of this before.  
  
‘Slowly,’ Sherlock said. ‘Not, um, too hard.’  
  
‘Got it,’ Greg said. He moved his hand up and down his length with almost exaggerated slowness, finishing each pull with a gentle pull on Sherlocks foreskin. It was the laziest hand job he’d ever given, and part of him was astounded that it was enough to keep Sherlock hard.  
  
It clearly, clearly was, though. His eyes had darkened and his pale chest was rising and falling now in a way Greg recognized. Best not to get him too over excited, though.   
  
‘I’m going to lie down,’ Greg said, his voice low and soothing to match the movements of his hand. ‘You’re going to get on top of me, yeah? And I’m going to have both our cocks in my hand. Yeah, Sherlock?’  
  
‘Yeah,’ Sherlock said. ‘That’s- good idea.’  
  
Greg smirked. He moved backwards on the limo seat, his skin sticking a little on the leather. It was, however, extremely comfortable. Sherlock bit down on his bottom lip for a moment, clear blue eyes roaming over his body.   
  
‘Come on,’ Greg said. ‘Down here now.’  
  
Sherlock dropped down, lining their hips up. They both jerked in surprise when their cocks brushed together. Gregs was already leaking rather a lot now, as if it new what was coming and was excited about it. Sherlock rested against his chest, one of his arms holding himself up slightly. Greg had just enough room to reach his slick hand down between their bodies.  
  
Sherlock gasped as Gregs hand closed around them both. Greg liked a harder pace, himself, but he wasn’t the point of the experiment, so he moved his hand as slowly as he could endure. Sherlock was now biting down on his bottom lip so hard Greg was slightly worried he’d chomp right through it.  
  
‘Good?’ Greg asked. ‘Looks like you’re into it.’  
  
‘Quite,’ Sherlock managed. ‘Can I- move?’  
  
‘God, you don’t have to ask, Sherlock. Move all you want.’  
  
Sherlock began to push his hips forwards. Again, it wasn’t the desperate, pumping movements Greg associated with typical fucking. Sherlock moved slowly, his muscles straining with effort.  
  
If Greg put his head to the side he could just see where his hand was wrapped around them. Sherlocks cock slid towards him and back, over and over, sliding under his fingers. It was extremely, extremely hot.   
  
Even so, though, Greg knew it wasn’t going to be enough. He focused on the way Sherlocks lips were parted, on the way his hair moved as he pushed his hips forward, on the warmth of his chest and the smell of his sweat mingled with his expensive cologne. It wasn’t going to be the best fuck of his life, but he’d be damned if he didn’t remember every detail of being with Sherlock Holmes.  
  
Eventually Sherlock pulled away, sitting up and nearly hitting his head on the roof of the limo. His cock bobbed and Gregs ached, missing even the limited stimulation it’d been getting.  
  
‘I think I’m just going to, uh, finish of myself,’ Sherlock said, blushing. ‘It’s not that you’re not brilliant, because it is, but I’m just… um.’  
  
‘Wired that way,’ Greg finished. ‘It’s ok. It was still hot. Sit with me while I get off too?’  
  
Sherlock nodded. They sat side by side, holding hands, Greg finally fucking his fist with all the force that he needed while Sherlock, beside him, gripped his fingers and came with a low, relieved sigh.  
  
Greg watched his face as he came. Sherlocks eyes closed, his face turned to the side, his mouth open and mouthing nonsense words into the air. He was gorgeous, Greg thought. He came as well, crushing Sherlocks fingers as he did, moaning louder than he’d been expecting to.  
  
‘Thank you,’ Greg heard Sherlock say. ‘Thank you.’  
  
~  
  
Greg pressed the discreet white buzzer. The small button above it went green and Greg smiled for the camera he knew must be pointed at him. The door swung open.  
  
He had no idea what Mycroft wanted with him. They had spoken a number of times over the years, but with increasing regularity since Sherlocks dramatic return from his faked death.  
  
In fact Greg was now rather fond of Mycroft. For all his posh nonsense and terrifying displays of power, he was occasionally very funny, obviously super intelligent, and had Sherlocks best interests at heart.  
  
Which was why Greg felt so nervous climbing down the stairs that led to his private office. Had something happened (again?) to Sherlock?  
  
His assistant was waiting for him. Highly attractive and annoyingly enigmatic, everything Greg did seemed to amuse her immensely. He still called her Anthea to himself, even though he knew very well that it wasn’t her real name.  
  
‘Lestrade, how good to see you,’ she said. ‘Could I take your jacket?’  
  
‘I’d rather you didn’t. Where’s Mycroft?’  
  
‘He will be with us shortly,’ she said, smiling.  
  
It occurred to him that he’d never seen her without her phone before.  
  
‘Us?’ Greg asked. ‘This is for both of us?’  
  
‘Yes. It’s nothing to do with Sherlock, before you ask. This is a slightly more delicate situation.’  
  
‘Right.’  
  
He had no idea what kind of delicate issue could involve all three of them, but, well, he wasn’t the genius in this situation. He sat down without an invitation, and Anthea sat next to him, folding her legs.  
  
Mycrofts desk sat opposite them both, and behind it was a single door and a huge portrait of the Queen. It was rather off-putting, Greg thought.  
  
‘I suppose you can’t tell me anything?’ Greg asked, not feeling hopeful.  
  
‘Not exactly… but, well, you’ll know soon enough. A little spoiler can’t hurt you.’  
  
Greg turned to look at her properly. The smile that often played around her mouth was more pronounced than ever. Greg wondered if he was about to be pranked on live TV.  
  
‘As you are probably unaware,’ Anthea said, ‘Mycroft Holmes is married.’  
  
‘Oh?’ This was news to Greg. ‘Well, I didn’t know that, no.’  
  
‘Married to me,’ Anthea continued.   
  
Greg gaped at her. She held up her hand, displaying the gold ring there. He hastily changed his expression to one of happy surprise.  
  
‘That’s… well, lovely,’ he said, awkward. ‘But I have no idea what this has to do with me being here now.’  
  
The door beside the Queen opened and Mycroft appeared, giving them both a rather tired smile. He was carrying a video camera and tripod under his arm in place of his usual umbrella.  
  
‘Anthea, Greg, so lovely to see you both together. I trust you haven’t given too much away?’  
  
‘No,’ Anthea smiled.   
  
‘But I would like somebody to explain,’ Greg interjected. ‘At some point.’  
  
‘Quite so,’ Mycroft said, sitting down. ‘Greg, I admit I’ve called you in today under somewhat false pretenses. This has nothing whatsoever to do with our working lives.’  
  
‘Oh…?’  
  
‘Yes,’ Mycroft said, smiling. ‘This is something of a delicate personal situation. One that, I assure you, both Anthea and I are hoping you will be able to assist us with.’  
  
‘Ok, well…’ Greg said, floundering in his confusion. ‘I can’t really offer myself up as a marriage counselor, you know about the divorce, obviously, but if you needed an impartial third party then-’  
  
‘No, no,’ Mycroft said. ‘I don’t want you to be impartial at all. But Anthea and I are looking for a, as you put it, third party.’  
  
The penny dropped.  
  
Once Greg recovered from the shock (it was among the greatest shocks he’d ever received in his life) he began, slowly, to smile.  
  
Clearly, somebody up in the heavens loved him. _Greg Lestrade_ , he thought to himself, _luckiest man on earth._

**Author's Note:**

> You can send me a prompt on my tumblr- I love rare pair fic :)
> 
> raregloves.tumblr.com


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